Scenes In London IV - The City Churchyard

I PRAY thee lay me not to rest

Among these mouldering bones;

Too heavily the earth is prest

By all these crowded stones.

Life is too gay—life is too near—

With all its pomp and toil;

I pray thee do not lay me here,

In such a world-struck soil.

The ceaseless roll of wheels would wake

The slumbers of the dead;

I cannot bear for life to make

Its pathway o'er my head.

The flags around are cold and drear,

They stand apart, alone;

And no one ever pauses here,

To sorrow for the gone.

No: lay me in the far green fields

The summer sunshine cheers;

And where the early wild flower yields

The tribute of its tears.

Where shadows the sepulchral yew,

Where droops the willow tree,

Where the long grass is filled with dew—

Oh! make such grave for me!

And passers-by, at evening's close,

Will pause beside the grave,

And moralize o'er the repose

They fear, and yet they crave.

Perhaps some kindly hand may bring

Its offering to the tomb;

And say, As fades the rose in spring,

So fadeth human bloom.

But here there is no kindly thought

To soothe, and to relieve;

No fancies and no flowers are brought,

That soften while they grieve.

Here Poesy and Love come not—

It is a world of stone;

The grave is bought—is closed—forgot!

And then life hurries on.

Sorrow and beauty—nature—love—

Redeem man's common breath;

Ah! let them shed the grave above—

Give loveliness to death.